


The Groom's Whore

by areneecz



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood, Blow Jobs, Body Modification, Canon-Typical Violence, Face-Fucking, Fingering, Forced Marriage, Gore, Groping, Hand Jobs, Involuntary Sex Change, Kissing, Knifeplay, M/M, Marriage, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Groping, Non-Consensual Kissing, Rough Sex, Sex, Sex Change, Stockholm, Stockholm Syndrome, Vaginal Fingering, Violence, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-10-29 03:03:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10845159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/areneecz/pseuds/areneecz
Summary: Waylon Park is desperate for freedom, anything to get away from the madman chasing him. With surfacing revelation, he starts to think Lisa might be better off without him.





	1. Discovery

Ankles, swollen from countless steps, trudging through the same hallways. At first, it was a puzzle, misleading, a constant tease, now it was rhythmic, a pattern he’d managed to memorize through the madness. Time. He wondered how much time had passed, how Lisa was, was she crying, thinking he was dead? The possibilities made his stomach ache. His feet trailed the path, brain numb, little to no thought needed to follow the correct path, feet moving, seemingly by themselves as he prayed for a sliver of freedom. Nearby sat a broken chair, he slouched into it, desperate for rest, his ankles throbbed, feet, calloused and sore as he leaned into the frame of the aging chair.

“Darling?” A familiar voice called. Him. Footsteps echoing as Waylon attempted to pull himself free, sit-up, but his muscles disobeyed. Tired, pushed too far, they refused to move. A nervous chill ran down his spine at the thought of being caught by Gluskin. “Are you close, my dear?” He added, a somewhat, compassionate tone to the man’s voice, if he was even capable of that emotion. Waylon scoffed, desperate to move, throwing himself to the floor seemed like a better option then letting Eddie discover him.

Finally without warning his muscles reacted, throwing himself, his chest, slamming against the stiff wooden floor-boards with an echo. Air, escaped, rushing into the stale space around him, wheezing he dragged his nails across the floor-boards in an attempt to crawl, move himself from plain sight, from view. Waylon wheezed as the footsteps behind him drew closer, mind reeling, dirty, vile thoughts, what Gluskin would do if he found him, strap him down, slice him open, caress his skin before he cut it off. With a sudden jolt he rolled over, bile spilling from his mouth as he attempted to push the images from his mind.

The sound of his vomiting alone was enough to clue Eddie in on his location, turning corners until he discovered his bride, inches away from a pool of his own vomit, gripping his head in an attempt to keep conscious. Hands grabbed, taking Waylon into his arms. Disgusting, he felt vile but the sudden warmth radiating from Gluskin, through his clothes, it was peaceful. Waylon rested his head against the man’s chest, eyes closed tight with disgust, a shiver to his lip, a cold chill rushing the length of his spine as he thought of Lisa, what she’d think if she saw him like this. Silently, Eddie carried him, the steady rise and fall of his chest enough to lull Waylon to sleep but his heavy footsteps kept his mind awake, afraid.

Suddenly, Waylon was placed, warmth from Eddie left behind as his skin hitched across the rough, cold fabric of the bed he sat upon. Rough hands searched the wooden floor below. Reverberating was the rattle of metal chains, a cold clamp of imprisonment sealing his fate as Gluskin forced a lock around Waylon’s ankle. Suddenly a rough hand came in contact, slapping him across the face and leaving a stinging pain behind. Eyes, bloody blue irises, prying like a thorn, hovered, angry hands gripped Waylon’s face, squeezing the bruised flesh with a painfully, with a free hand Eddie pulled at his belt. A wooden handle, pulling free a knife it sat stained with the blood of countless victims, dangling above in Gluskin’s grasp. Teetering, the sharp tip ripped at the skin it dragged over, etching a few faint lines until blood drew. Letting his prisoner go altogether Waylon fell back against the material of the aged bed below. Face sore, bruised, bleeding speckled with faint pinpricks of black, blue, and red.

“Whore.” Eddie grumbled, hovering over Waylon’s fearful form. Shuffling backwards the smaller man attempted to engulf farthest corner away of the bed. Waylon, a fearful ball forming in his throat as his head reeled from the previous slap he received. “Disobeying me, leaving?” He paused, fists clenching with every word he spoke. “This.” He hissed, pointing to the recent wounds lining Waylon’s face, the chain holding him hostage. “Is only the beginning of your punishment.” Gluskin finished, turning his back to the other in a quick attempt to calm himself, to ease himself away from the thought of ripping his bride apart.

Silenty he moved, feet shuffling across the wooden floor-boards, calloused hands turning a rusted doorknob, pure strength alone enough to crush the metal handle below. Pausing he ran his tongue over scarred lips as he thought of a proper conjunction of words to coo in Waylon’s direction. Turning on his heels a sweet smile spread across his face, feet trailing as he returned to the bed Waylon sat upon.

“I’m terribly sorry, dear.” Gluskin calmed, hands raising, writhing together as he sat his weight on the edge of the bed. "I love you.” He called, with a sudden jerk he pulled Waylon forward, pressing scarred, bloody lips to a completely different pair, the other winced at the contact, disgusted with Gluskin's touch but he masked it, afraid to anger Eddie once more.

Pulling away Gluskin dragged a single bloody finger over Waylon’s bottom lip, skin sour, plastered with dirt, dust, the faint taste of dried blood. Again Eddie stood, trailing to the door as he refused reluctance. Continuing on his path he opened the door to exit, locking it behind him as he flashed a final smile through the dirtied glass of the window, the blow of a kiss, his towering shadow that filled the small hallway finally disappearing into another room. Sitting Waylon's knees raised, arms fearfully wrapped around his legs as a violent sob shook his form. With a painful hiss he bit his lip, afraid to cry out, to be loud, to alert Eddie and have him return, chattering teeth held his mouth hostage until the bitter taste of iron filled his mouth. A faint line trailied from the newly-made wound, without warning he wiped at the crimson trail, the pain enough to distract him. Wiping his eyes he moved, laying down he forced his eyes shut, listening to the rhythmic hum of machinery from below.

Darkness rotated like clockwork, whips of unrecognizable shadows, visions, flashes of his misfortunes, the horror that Murkoff made him endure. Blaring images from the Morphogenic Engine, shapes, impossible to make out, burning, scarring his retinas, the echo of his screams, the screams of countless Murkoff patients lined up like cattle, suffering in symetrical glass prisons, locked in place, forced to suffer endlessly. Hands stiff, scratching at his face to ease the pain, to free the pressure building up, death at this point was freedom, a gift most begged for. Watching the lights a sudden pull naseated him, a pain in his stomach, bile trailed, flowing from his mouth and staining his overalls. Coughing to clear his throat it poured endlessly, suffocating like screaming underwater, it violated, filling every crevice with intent to kill.

Throwing himself he awoke, launching from the bed as he sat up in a panic, sweat drenching his skin, soaking the already crimson-stained mattress below. Breath heavy, panicked as tears trailed. Shaking the images from his head he threw his legs over the edge of the bed, cold chain that held him in place almost calming against his searing-hot skin, bringing his hands to his face he wiped the pooling sweat. Knocking. The heavy weight of Gluskin’s fists against the wooden door pulled Waylon from his thoughts as he jumped back, laying down in an attempt to fool as he pretended to snore silently. Knob turned, feet traveled, silently Eddie moved closer, afraid to wake his bride.

“Resting, my dear?” Gluskin questioned, hands falling to Waylon’s hips as he caressed the skin from above. Rough material of slacks scratched the skin below, causing a wince to escape as he tried to ignore the stinging chaff running the length of his skin. “Rest well deserved, you put yourself through too much, and for what?” He called, hands moving from hips to waist, roughly caressing as he sat. “You’d be royalty if only you stopped running from this.” He added, hands still traveling, moving to Waylon’s chest, pecking at his skin as he groped. A sickening feeling arose as he twitched under the grasp, causing the other to flash a proud smile at the reaction he got. Stirring his eyes finally snapped open, surveying the toothy grin and glaring irises of Eddie above. Caressing Waylon’s skin gently he helped him sit up, hands moving as lips pressed closer, laying a line of kisses along the skin as the other  shivered at touch, reaction mistaken as pleasure as Gluskin grinned proudly. The touches, lines of kisses, and gentle carsses felt vile, wrong, fucking wrong, every little touch bringing forth Lisa, her reactions and what she’d think of Waylon like this, so vulnerable, letting another man touch him. In an attempt to free his body of Gluskin’s hands he took hold of them.

“I-I’m sorry.” Waylon called, finally speaking to the man he feared, apologizing for his “actions” of which angered the groom, trying to flee, leave him behind. Flashing a confused but decadent smile he tried to please. “I really am.” Waylon added, voice weak, hoarse as he trembled. “F-For leaving, for the pain I caused.” Waylon finished, caressing the calloused hands he held, stomach churning at the thought of the sick game of house he’d be forced to now play.

“So sweet.” Eddie purred, hands pulling free from Waylon’s to caress his face, taking hold of his cheek as he rubbed his thumb over the bruised cheek-bone rhythmically. “Though.” He called, hand suddenly falling away, cold air rushing to where warmth once sat, fingers falling to his own messily-stitched pants, stained, rough. “Proof is needed of your regrets, my dear.” He called, fingers tapping at his lip as he puzzled, waiting for a thought to surface.

Silent, like a habit Waylon bit at his lip, the open wound from before burning, searing pain serving as a distraction to the madhouse he sat within. Eyes traveled,  fearfully awaiting his punishment, what twisted activity the groom had planned within his mind. Finally he retook hold of Waylon’s hands, grasp cold as he smiled, teeth bared, eyes bloody, shining proudly at his unknown idea.

“My little minx.” Gluskin purred, caressing Waylon’s hand, his skin, pulling his hand closer to drag his lips over the smooth surface. Waylon, again, shivered at the touch as he held in his disgust. “You’ll model my dresses, hm?” He called, lulling as his eyes fell atop Waylon who sat, nodding, obeying. “So I can observe every inch of that luxurious skin, my darling.” Eddie finished, pressing a kiss to the back of Waylon’s hand before letting it fall free. With a start he focused elsewere, eyeing the dirtied robes Murkoff had supplied the other with an unimpressed frown. "Disgusting.” He commented, pinching the fabric of Waylon’s pants with two fingers, eyeing every stitch with pin-prick precision as he ran his fingers along the coarse material. “Remove these atrocities.” Gluskin ordered, standing as he ushered towards the door excitedly, fixated on the doorknob as he worked the handle. “I’ll bring you a night-gown, darling, made from the finest fabrics, softest linens.” He purred, pulling the door open, with a shuffle he left the panal wide open, released the handle and darted down the dark hallway.

Stomach rolling Waylon hesitated, afraid to reveal himself. Nervously his hands hovered, paused over his chest where faded buttons once sat, but now tattered strings swayed. Outfit abandoned with age, numbers faded, showcasing his imprisonment. Slowly he worked his shirt over his arms, goosebumps, lining his shoulders as the fabric dragged, made contact when pulled over, cold air fluttered over his chest, skin shivering as he continued. Unbuttoning his pants he slid them off, struggling to pry them due to the chain binding him, resorting to tearing the article entirely. Tossing the garments aside he stood bare, only his underwear sheathing him. Stumbling in the groom returned, heavy feet dragging over the dull floor-boards as over-arm hung a shimmery fabric, satin, and more discreetly a smaller adornment, underwear of some sort. Waylon swallowed as a dark feeling surfaced, fear, embarrassment, lately he couldn’t tell the two apart. Handing over the articles Gluskin hovered, extending an arm of support as he waited for Waylon. Taking hold he stood, pulling the gown over-head as the fabric slinked against his skin, with a swift movement he removed his underwear, tossing them too aside as he pulled the smaller silk garments on. As he finished Waylon stood half-naked, freezing, exposed. Returning his weight to the bed he took hold of himself, a shiver deep and cold overtaking him as the figure above observed, with immediate action Gluskin slinked an arm over the other's shoulder, hugging the smaller man.

“Beautiful.” Eddie cooed, eyeing the fabric and how it sat, rested, desperate to eye deeper. He held himself back, awaiting the proper time for indulgence, instead he pressed a sloppy kiss to Waylon’s cheek, lips running over his skin as the wet kisses left behind attempted to taste the skin below. A slivering smile grew on Gluskin's lips as they pressed against Waylon’s skin, slowly they traveled, laying a trail of kisses down cold skin, traveling the length of the other's arm. “Like candy, a gift waiting to be unwrapped.” He purred, affectionate and needy as hands searched every inch of skin available to him.

“P-Please.” Waylon whimpered, trying to wiggle from Gluskin’s grasp as he was desperate to pull away, to be free. Hands shaked nervously, strange movements to his figure. “I adore your affection, I do.” Waylon lied, flashing a fake smile as he sealed his fate. “I just, I-I need time to myself, you know?” He questioned, searching Eddie’s eyes for understanding, what he found was cold blue, confusion.

“A wife, endures, does she not?” Gluskin questioned, Waylon's repremands lost to the madness, buried like the patients and files of Mount Massive. Sliding along the bed the smaller man inched away. With a start Eddie stepped forward, grasp strong as he took hold of Waylon’s ankle. “You belittle my affection, cease to receive it?” He questioned, hands hard on the other as sharp fingernails dug into soft skin.

“N-No!” Waylon exclaimed, hand raised defensively as the other pulled at the frill of his gown in an attempt to shield his skin. “I just, to please my husband.” He continued, an audible gag arising as Waylon tried his best to mask it, gritting a smile as he panicked to explain himself. “I need time to myself, like you do, to prepare.” Waylon explained, cheeks sore from the tears that threatened to escape.

“Hmh.” Eddie hummed, for drumming over the skin of Waylon’s leg as he thought, anger fading as cogs whirred. “I suppose I shouldn’t suffocate you with affection.” He announced, nodding as he thought to himself. “Leisurely time is necessary.” Gluskin added, not quite sure with his own thoughts.

“S-See?” Waylon questioned, panicking as he shook, eyes swelling with tears as he lied to the man before him, an audible sob echoing from his mouth as he tried to mask it. Moving closer Gluskin hovered, worried as he thumbed tears from Waylon’s cheeks, a saddened smile on his face as he reacted to the tears. “I’m sorry.” He sobbed as he attempted to hide his face.

“Do not hide, my dear.” Gluskin called, pulling Waylon’s hands away from his face as he held them, desperatly trying to ease Waylon’s nervous shaking. For a moment he seemed sincere, kind, almost child-like. “Why do you cry?” He asked, hand raised as it hovered over Waylon's shoulder until he finally grasped it.

“I'm overwhelmed.” Waylon began, wanting to jerk from Eddie’s grasp, his hands, his fingers, every inch of skin that collided with his. It disgusted him, the man before him so unable to grasp the concept of Waylon’s suffering, the pain, grief. Giving up he only shook his head with a pathetic laugh. “I’m just, so happy.” He lied, wiping his own tears away as he flashed a smile, trapped within his own thoughts as he continued. “Happy to be with you, forever.” Waylon finished, earning a proud audible coo from Gluskin.

“You embarrass me.” Eddie smirked, placing a hand over his heart as he pulled another to his side. Shifting his smile soon faded, eyes, connecting with Waylon’s as he searched, orbs fearful for once, blue irises that violated, sat softly and somewhat hopeful. “Tears are not your best garment, dear.” He informed as he curled over, pressing a single kiss to Waylon’s forehead before standing up straight.

“Do not fret.” Gluskin called as he flashed a toothy grin. “I’ll keep you forever my dear.” He added.


	2. Desperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Gluskin pursues, Waylon decides if he should even bother returning to Lisa as half the man he used to be.

Fluttering open his eyes rolled, taking in the image, a room, different from the previous. Ceilings, maintained, slacked with white paint and messily scrawled, still a better sight than the usual rotting ceilings of Mount Massive. Rolling over, a sudden tug of shear strength pulled him aside. Gluskin. Sleeping soundly for once, his usual angry expression, faded, hidden within his dreams for the moment. Scanning his face, the bloody scars that mutilated his skin, he watched him.

Shifting. Every now and then he’d shiver, jolt, like he was trapped in a nightmare. It was a shocking thought, the man before him. He, who’d mutilated, murdered, and tortured countless innocent patients, was he even capable of nightmares? Thoughts, springing forward, the files he’d fingered through, patients, explanations. Innocent men turned monsters, as bad as he was, horrible, vile. He was human once, they all were, sick men, diseased from the horror of Mount Massive’s experiments. 

Eddie Gluskin. Forty-six when admitted. Facial scars received from countless experiences of forced confinement, the Morphogenic Engine. An innocent child, turned criminal. Brain riddled with trauma due to the forced sexual experiences his father made him endure. Fucking sick. He was normal once, innocence ripped away, beneath it all, the insanity, he was human.

Rolling over, the Groom’s rough hands chafed Waylon’s skin as he moved beneath his grasp. He turned away, eyes sick of the sight of Gluskin. Debating thoughts, he knew he felt sorry for Eddie. But he was too far gone to save, too far gone to bring back, even if he wanted too, Gluskin would never be the same man he once was. Pausing, he gritted his teeth. Thoughts disgusting him. Did he really want to save the man that held him hostage, violated him, tore any shred of freedom apart right before his eyes? 

The faint tickle of satin straps falling from his shoulders as he ushered out from beneath the groom’s grasp, sitting up, throwing his feet over the edge as he let out a heaving sigh. Still. He was bound, chain around his leg, moved from one room to another, like cattle waiting for slaughter. He wasn’t taking any chances, refusing to let his bride escape. 

The room he sat within, seemed, normal. Clean, painted, proper, well-kept. Items cataloged, aligned on tables, neatly kept. Mannequins, in the distance, holding what seemed to be the fabric of gowns, some finished, some far from completion. A room, perfect for the tailor Gluskin claimed to be. Standing, for a moment, Waylon stretched his muscles, as vile as Eddie’s constant touches were, the grotesque moments. It was far better than the claustrophobic lockers littered around Mount Massive he was forced to hide within. The tight spaces he’d used to shield himself from endless waves of maniacs.

 

Leaning over, he stretched his muscles, running his fingers over the skin of his legs as he moved. Standing, again, shifting his arms from side-to-side, stretching the muscles that sat, tensely, shifting his weight. It was calming, peaceful, even. Eyes closed, imagining the pale painted rooms of his house, Lisa’s intoxicating smile as she watched Waylon move, he missed it. Standing straight, the warm images faded, replaced with the cold touch of Gluskin. Curious hands searching the skin of his back-side. Traveling. 

“Pleased to see me?” He cooed, hands masagging the tense skin. A groan escaping Waylon’s lips, planting a smile within the edges of Gluskin’s face as he worked the eager skin below. As vile as the touch felt, his hands worked wonders on his aching back. “I’ve noticed, dear.” He paused, pulling Waylon down, sitting him gently on the bed’s edge. Hands traveling to Waylon’s shoulders, fingers pressing into the knotted skin beneath. “You’ve, been loud, nightmares, I suppose, I figured, with me, they’ll cease.” He admitted, experienced fingers working their magic. Eyes, hidden.

“Y-Yeah.” Waylon mumbled, mind lost in the rhythmic touch, following the movements of Eddie’s fingers as they moved. Thoughts, blurring with pleasure, as he tried to relax himself. “I-I’ve, been through a lot.” He admitted, hands falling together, fingers entangling.

“I know, I know.” Eddie cooed, a calming tone to his voice, hands moving from shoulder to neck, carefully massaging the skin, earning a pleasant groan from Waylon, enjoying the rough, but careful movements. “Did they return, the nightmares, with me?” Eddie continued, one hand stopping, slinked over Waylon’s shoulder, playing with fabric of the night-gown straps as he awaited a response. 

“I.” Waylon began, pulling his thoughts from the calming massage in an attempt to focus, closing his eyes to recall. For once, thinking back on his dreams, the darkness, ceased, warm images, houses, offices, normality. The hovering memories of Lisa, his children. Opening, it faded, again replaced. “No.” He announced, fearful of the truth, afraid that Gluskin managed to cease his nightmares with his presence, again, it disgusted him.

“Perfect.” Gluskin purred, wrapping his arms around Waylon. Forward, a tugging motion, he pulled the smaller man into his lap, nuzzling the soft skin below, scarred, rough, fingers dragging along his skin. Every little material, rough, disgusting, far from the soft cotton of his bed at home, he wanted to gag. “Then I’ll keep you here, with me.” He added, a smile forming as he pressed a line of kisses along Waylon’s bare shoulders, skin revealed where the gown failed to cover. 

“P-Perfect.” Waylon shivered, copying Gluskin’s words, trying to ease his thoughts, ignore the trail of kisses that slivered over his skin. The nauseating touch. Hands, moving, played with the short blonde hair atop Waylon’s head, fingers, digging through his dirted locks. 

 

“Dear.” Eddie purred, hands, abandoning Waylon’s body for the time being. Shifting in the bigger man’s arms, he turned to face him, awaiting a response. “I have errands to run, people to meet.” He explained, shifting Waylon to place him on the mattress as he stood from the bed. Fingers fixating, straightening his bow-tie. “I’ll need to leave you alone for a while, dear.” He cooed, turning around to face Waylon.

“H-How long?” Waylon stuttered, facing the hovering man with a nauseous expression. Embarrassingly, Eddie’s company was better than the silent madness that traveled through the endless hallways, a twang of panic, realizing the feeling growing for the man before him, strange, vile, but unavoidable. “Will I be safe?” He added, thoughts trailing to the variants, stalking figures who would ultimately sniff Waylon out.

“Only a day or two, my dear.” He called, extending a hand to Waylon, who took hold immediately. Eyes scanning the scarred face before him. Waiting. Nervous, twitching in the hold of another. “No harm shall come to you, I’ll make sure of it.” He called, gravelly, his voice sending a shiver down Waylon’s spine, suddenly, leaning forward, he pecked at Waylon’s cheek, kissing him gently before heading for the door.

“Food, water, beneath the bed, love.” He called, hands taking hold of the bloodied door-knob, dried, aged, pulling it open, it hissed, rusting within, old age wracking the collection of bolts holding it together. “If it’s necessary, if you're in danger, darling, call for me.” He finished, ending his sentence with a proud grin before disappearing around the corner. Closing the door harshly behind him, the lock, turning, another barricade holding Waylon hostage, another hurdle. 

Without the Groom's company, the constant kisses, endless affection. The room whirred silently, floor-boards shifting, running feet, every noise was a warning. Waylon kept silent, wrapped in the blankets abandoned by Gluskin. Afraid to sleep, afraid for the nightmares to return, he lolled, rolling in the scent of Eddie, the musk, the stench of cologne, strong, violating his nostrils, the smell of his skin, bitter, blood-stained, embarrassingly, a scent he missed. Eyes heavy. Blinking, keeping his mind busy to avoid sleep, failing, as the darkness seeped from behind, pulling him down under, falling victim.

Dreaming. Without him, Gluskin, it was still pleasant. This time, he sat within a familiar room, chipping paint in the corner that had always managed to annoy him, his fingers, hurriedly typing away as the blaring light from his laptop illuminated the room. Giggles, a wooden door, opening, children, rushing to his side, bright-eyed, happy. 

“Daddy.” They called simultaneously, hands attempting to wrap around Waylon’s waist. Attempting to crawl into his arms, a chuckle, shaking his form, he ruffled the hair below, earning a laugh from his children. “When are you coming home?” They asked, shifting suddenly, eyes, cold, and sad, stepping back silently, heads turning. Questioning. 

“I-I’m right here.” Waylon called with confusion, turning from his laptop to face the children properly. “I’m home.” He added reassuringly. Tapping his foot, a nervous tick.

“Mommy cries a lot.” One called, ignoring Waylon’s words, looking to his feet with shame. Like a child afraid of ridicule, punishment. “She thinks you're dead, rotting.” The other added, tears, running over his cheeks, a black tint to the liquid forming, the other, writhing his hands as the peaceful world around him crumbled.

“She’s given up.” One added, like clockwork, a cycle, comments to drive him insane, speaking like Waylon was invisible. “Moved on.” The other added, tears forming, growing darker. The image of the children, fading, sinking into the floor, oozing, until, a third apparition appeared. Taller, she sobbed, brown hair falling around her shoulders as she shook. 

“I-I.” She mumbled, face hidden underneath her palms, a darkness coating her face. “Left me behind, for a mad-man?” She jerked, suddenly, flashing a toothy grin. Lisa. Her kind face, distorted, deformed. Hissing as she spit insults in Waylon’s direction.

“N-No!” Waylon interjected, standing to face his wife, afraid. “I-I’m too weak, he’ll, attack me, hurt me!” Waylon added, embarrassed at his pathetic attitude, his fear of his wife, of Gluskin. Himself.

“Then nothing’s changed.” She hissed, stepping closer, a hand, lunging, taking hold of Waylon’s throat, forcing the air out, face distorting as she stood. “Still weak, still pathetic.” She listed, her grip tightening. “You deserve him.” She finished, a final lunge, piercing his form.

With a jolt, he rose, breathing rapidly. Heavily. Instantly, a sob shook him. Too tired to care, too tired to keep quiet, he cried, letting the hideous sobs shake his body. The images of Lisa fluttering from his memory, his children. Hands shaking, he wiped at his eyes, flushing the endless tears from his face. Wiping his hands along the gown he adorned to clear the mess. The chain binding him, rattling with his movements, his cries. Hiccuping, he bit at his lip, teeth sharp against the skin as he drew blood, desperate for pain, for anything to clear his mind of the retching nightmare. He gripped at his skin, nails scoring as he dragged them across.

A sickening gurgle erupted in his stomach, shaking his form, throat, dry, desperate. Thoughts, coming into view, Eddie’s words. Scrambling from the mattress, he moved. His hands searched the bed’s underside, fingers gripping cold metal as he tugged at the material. The hiss of a dragging crate, he pulled a small container free. Inside, cans sat, labels faded, old, aged cans of soup, vegetables, dates smeared beyond recognition. Pulling a single can free, he cradled it, latching his finger through the small tab, pulling it free with a small pop. The remnants within sat, oily, molded-over. With desperate fingers, he fed, pouring the cold food down his throat, his lips parted, tongue pulling the food forward, ignoring the foul taste, the smell. Like water traveling down a blocked drain-pipe, the food refused in some areas, but Waylon’s desperate form was eager to swallow the remaining slop. Tossing the empty can back within the crate, his hands hovered over a dusty water-bottle, the small container, dull, yellowed. Rotating the cap, he pressed the neck to his lips, taking a few lengthy sips before putting the drink aside.

Stomach full, rolled, sick with the filth of the “food” Gluskin had provided. Food. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a decent meal, something warm, something edible. Meals now, mainly consisted of half-a-decade old slop. The oily remnants of aged cans, and the yellowing water within Mount Massive’s pipes. His stomach had grown accustomed to the poison, almost, desperate for its sustenance. Massaging his forehead, he let a sigh pass, tired, but too afraid to sleep, he sat. The longing image of his two children, his wife. Lisa, fresh in his mind.


	3. Deterioration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Realization in his actions, Waylon ignores any surfacing thoughts of returning to Lisa. Returning home.

Rain. Drumming against the roof as Waylon sat, silence as he awaited the arrival of his groom. Eyes, heavy with sleep avoided. He rubbed at the sockets, desperate for Eddie’s return, his presence next to him to chase away his nightmares. Desperate for some form of rest. Thoughts reeling. Did he really want to return to Lisa? Burden her with his trauma, issues. No. He’d rather die than return to Lisa half-intact. Half of the man he used to be. Even if he wanted to return, he wouldn’t. He, like most, was too far gone for redemption. 

Retching, he rolled over, pulling his face far from the mattress he sat on. Again vomiting. This time, his bile whirled with the colors of crimson, blood. Faint lines swirled within the rotting chunks of molded food before him. Wheezing, taking a deep breath. Form shaking, he ignored the sickness growing within, ignoring the cold chill that passed over him. He welcomed it, hoping, possibly, for death to follow. To free him.

A droning voice pulled him. Eyes from the floor, himself from his thoughts, turning eyes on the locked door. Eddie. Still, he was far, but his deep voice gravitated, the wooden floor-boards trembling with every word spoken. The same song, an old tune. Echoes of marriage, finding a proper wife, it was a song Waylon had grown to despise. Leather shoes tapping to the tune as he continued along, invisible. Lurking. The door-knob, trembling as an unknown force turned it.

Opening, he entered. Blood, more than before, staining his clothes. In-hand, a spool of innards. It was nauseating. Cupping a hand over his mouth, Waylon ceased eye-contact, afraid to spill once again. A wet noise as the organs we’re tossed aside, a chaff, as Gluskin wiped his dirtied hands down the fabric of his pants. He ushered forward, eyes focused on his bride. Scanning the floor, head shaking sadly at the mess made. 

“Are you unwell, dear?” He called, noting the colors within the bile, the blood. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he tossed it to the floor to cover the sight. Hands, instantly falling to Waylon, the warmth, was calming, peaceful, a touch he missed. “I suppose, I could find Trager, supply you with a proper medical examination.” He lulled, thinking to himself, more than to Waylon. “I’d hate to see you ill, love.” He finished, saddened with the sight.

Moving within his grasp, he pressed his palms forward, cupping the mans scarred face. Lips connecting, he kissed him. Desperate for touch, compassion. He held him, hands curled around Gluskin, engulfing his warmth. Every aspect he’d disgustingly grown to love. Waylon, innocence stripped, turned mad-man. The two fell together perfectly. 

Lips parting, he released, flowing backwards. His eyes scanned Eddie’s. A calming blue, a pleased smile, and a warm glow to his cheeks. An outstretched hand reached, holding the arms of the man before him. Hands running over Waylon’s skin in an attempt to warm him.

 

“D-Don’t leave me.” Waylon called desperately, a sickness pooling beneath his skin. A feeling, he ignored. Grown to deserve. Hands falling to Eddie’s, he latched on. “Without you, the nightmares, it’s unbearable.” He added pathetically, spilling the truth. With a soothing smile, Eddie pulled Waylon into a needing embrace, a slight rock to his movements as he attempted to calm the smaller man. 

“I’m sorry, love.” Eddie called longingly, pulling Waylon back. Gentle. Eyes scanning each other. A warmth growing beneath, Waylon, a panicked twang, emotion’s, only felt with Lisa. Passion, pleasure, it flowed. A nervous jolt as he attempted to massage out the feeling. “I’m here.” He added, a slight pause to his words as Waylon, a slight pant to his movements. “Always.” He finished, desperate hands pulling Waylon forward. Forceful, prying.

Together, hands slinked over skin, both men, moving, discovering. Pulling the satin straps from his shoulder, Eddie ripped at the garment, exposing Waylon’s bare chest. Waylon, himself, hands fixated around Gluskin’s bowtie. Eager fingers untying the fabric, another, freeing the buttons that lined Eddie’s shirt with a desperate twitch. Legs wrapped around his size, around Eddie’s figure. Both, chest’s exposed, warm fingertips scrawled over skin. Waylon moaning at the touch Eddie supplied him with.

Pushing Waylon to the mattress, he hovered. Eyes scanning. Lips, ushering forward, dragging over the skin of Waylon’s chest, stopping to suckle the sensitive skin of his nipples. With a sudden jolt, a moan. Waylon’s hands fell to Gluskin’s hair, massaging through as pleasure ran the length of his spine. Desperate fingers traveling, wanting more. Wanting Eddie. 

“In heat, are you not?” Eddie called gravely as he moved his lips, licking the skin of Waylon’s stomach as he descended. A deep voice, earning an immediate moan from Waylon as he purred compliments. “A women, so desperate for touch, begging.” He continued, fingers lacing through the thin frill of Waylon’s underwear, pecking at the hair that stuck out. “Dripping.” He finished. A sudden strength ripping the fabric that sheathed. Waylon’s underwear, removed.

Hands falling to Waylon’s groin, fingers, mind too turned on to recall the placement of Waylon’s extremities. What sat below. Curling his fingers around the length of Waylon’s cock. A curious thumb massaging the underside with a desperate coo of enlightenment. Lips hovering, sliding over the skin as he smirked. 

Jolting, Eddie forced Waylon’s length within the space of his mouth. Dragging teeth, hitching the skin. Moist, lips parted, tongue trailing. Desperate for Waylon, his skin, his taste. Throwing his head back, Waylon endured. Obviously, he didn’t want it, Eddie’s scarred lips wrapped around the length of his cock, throat tight. But in the moment, he craved it, holding himself back from the feeling, the craving of wanting to force himself further down Eddie’s throat.

 

“F-Fuck.” Waylon hissed, fingers still entangled, head back. Body twitching as he endured. Completely exposed. Naked in the hands of Gluskin. Moving, his mouth ushered, tongue hard, forced against his underside. “D-Don’t stop.” He moaned, rolling within Eddie’s grasp, desperate for climax, for Eddie to push further, harder. Suddenly, he released, flowing within, his taste ghosting Eddie’s taste buds. Thick, and hot, pulling free with a pleasurable pop, he raised, smirking.

“I don’t believe I allowed you that luxury, dear.” Eddie hissed, hands roughly gripping the skin of Waylon’s hips, his thighs. Falling, teeth ghosting the skin, nibbling, every now and then, nipping at the flesh, pinpricks, bruises moist with spit. “Shall I punish you?” He purred, a free hand pulling at his belt. Knife released, pants, falling the length of his legs. Spinning the blade in-hand, he dragged it forward, tugging the tip over the exposed skin of Waylon’s chest.

A free hand tugged his flaccid length, throbbing tiredly. As the knife dragged, tip slicing the skin, pleasure returning. Length growing as the blade traveled. Gashes, forcefully carved into the skin beneath. Abandoning, Eddie, tugging at his own, pulled the two together, roughly rubbing the sensitive skin together, the touch, his own cock against his bride’s. Vile, but Waylon craved it. Knife, tossed aside, abandoned as Eddie bucked his hips. Fingers moving, laced with spit, eased Waylon’s entrance. Earning a collection of moans as his fingers worked their magic. A sudden finger puncturing the smooth skin within. 

“Whore.” He cooed, a soothing tone to his voice as a free hand traced the newly made wound along his chest. Words, he assumed, fingers removed, a bigger force coming in contact. With a groan, Gluskin forced his cock within, a desperate coo arising as he hovered his weight over Waylon. “Dirty, wet, unraveling in my arms.” He listed, constant movements. Forwards, backwards. Gritting the skin of Waylon’s insides. Suddenly, growing louder, desperate, Eddie grunting as he moved faster. Waylon writhed beneath. Breathless. “A proper slut.” He hissed, arms beside Waylon, forced into the material of the mattress. 

“Do it.” Waylon hissed, arms pulling at Eddie’s shoulders, desperate for his touch, his warmth, his cum inside of him. A free hand pumping his own swelling cock as he endured Eddie’s. “I-I want it.” He hissed, desperate fingers itching. “God, I fucking want it.” He gritted, a sudden jolt of his own, spraying a faint trail of white across his chest as he moaned. Eddie himself, still moving. Groaning over Waylon below, grinning. 

With a final jolt, desperately tugging, Eddie came within. For a moment, the two sat still, entwined within their own pleasure. Enjoying the pleasurable fall from their sex-caused high. A throbbing pain as Eddie pulled out with a sickening pop. With a deep breath, the bigger man rolled aside. Heaving breaths as he snuggled in close next to Waylon, a collection of his free fingers pooling at the liquid coating Waylon’s chest. Swirling the concoction before scooping the mess into his mouth. Tongue, swirling around his moistened fingertips. 

Grinning, he pulled his fingers free, licking each separately. The taste of Waylon strong on his taste buds as the smaller man reeled from his pleasurable punishment.


	4. Dedication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Succumbing to the darkness, to Eddie. This was Waylon's life now.

Eyes spinning, body still twitching, reeling from Eddie’s actions. Waylon lay, hand draped over his own stomach, tired, his muscles twitched pleasantly with his inhalations. His mind. Thoughts traveled, many lost, his guilt over Lisa, a vivid image as he laid beside the mad-man he’d managed to consummate. This. This was it. A point he refused to return from. 

Footsteps drawing closer as Eddie stepped forward. His pants pulled back into place, his vest, shirt. Abandoned. His bow-tie, draped around his neck as he arrived with another collection of articles. A robe, longer, thicker. Definitely warmer than the first night-gown he adorned. And, again, another pair of underwear. Standing, chain still, in-place around his ankle as he took hold of the clothing handed over. Before dressing, Waylon. Standing tall, he pecked a kiss at Eddie’s cheek, flashing a tired smile before turning to dress himself. 

Halfway. Pulling the undergarments on, a hand slid across his side, ghosting his hips as he dressed, Eddie. In-hand, the robe. With a helpful hand, he draped the article over, turning Waylon to button the robe he’d supplied him with. Standing back, he nodded. Eyeing his work, his wife.

“Eddie.” Waylon finally called, breaking the silence that had managed to linger for many a minute, a warm purr to his voice as he thought of a concoction of words to pull together. The truths he wanted to admit to Eddie. “I have a wife, a family, remember?” He finally called, pulling his own hands together to nervously intertwine his fingers. Hovering. Eddie glared, an instant change of emotion, anger. Expecting the worst of Waylon’s words, expecting a plea, release. 

“I-I’ve decided.” Waylon paused, hand ushering forward to grip Eddie’s fore-arm, a desperate, tired smile forming on his face. Robe draped around him as he moved forward. “After this, after you.” He lulled, slow in speech, afraid to reveal the truth aloud. “I can’t go back.” He paused again, fear lurking within, underneath. “Home, to her.” He finished, voice quiet, choked-up. Lips curling, Eddie’s anger faded, replaced with a smile as his hands fell to Waylon’s hips. 

“You are home, my dear.” He purred, sitting Waylon down. Surveying, he ordered, a rise as Waylon lifted his leg to expose the chain that bound him. “Giving up these ideologies, succumbing.” He cooed, pulling a key fourth from his pocket, fingers moving with the metal adornments as he worked the key into-place. A call, a sign of release. The chain fell, hitting the floor with a sickening rattle. Signifying the abandonment of his sanity, his family, his hopes. He was Eddie’s, and Eddie, was his. “You’ve earned freedom, my little minx.” Eddie finished, moving swiftly to peck a kiss on the skin of Waylon’s hand.

“A ceremony is needed, hm?” Eddie cooed, fingers intertwined with the fabric of Waylon’s newly adorned robe, easing the silk between his fingertips. Eyes, above, bright. For once, they seemed innocent. If that was even manageable. Chest, still bare. Waylon, drummed his fingers across the bare skin, awaiting Gluskin’s response. “We’ve, embarrassingly.” Eddie chuckled, eyes ghosting to the well, worn-in mattress behind him. “Consummated before marriage.” He finished, hands moving to take hold of Waylon’s, entwined as a deep laugh bellowed. 

“I suppose.” Waylon cooed, thoughts falling flat, Lisa. Flooding from his mind. Left far behind. The oozing darkness that managed to accompany him endlessly was now something he craved. Now, his only family, his only light, was Eddie. “Who would attend?” Waylon chirped, thoughts reeling, he felt vile, disgusted, defeated. A feeling, he now begged for, he pursued the darkness, craved every single sliver. “Family, friends.” He listed, mind traveling. “Anyone?” He finished, fingers ghosting the skin along Eddie’s arms as stood within his grasp.

Moving from Waylon’s hold, hands, momentarily searched the wooden floor, pulling free his ragged vest, he pulled the material over his shoulders, fingers trailing to fasten the buttons pressing against his chilled skin. Lips pursed, within his mind for the moment, searching for the proper conjunction of words. Finally, tugging his bow-tie into place with a silken texture, fabrics creasing together with Eddie’s movements.

“Us.” He called, back turned to Waylon as he adhered to his reflection in the mirror propped against the wall. Hands moving to replace his removed garments. “Is anyone else really needed, darling?” He purred, fabric slinking around his neck. Eyes returning to Waylon, searching his skin watching the simple, but complex movements. “The only two guests worth inviting.” He cooed, eyes shimmering, a smile to them, the corner of his lips curling. Feet trailing back to the center of the room. Arms outstretched to embrace Waylon. 

“Now.” He called, mind moving from the previous conversation, arms slung around Waylon’s shoulders as he pushed forward, the two, walking. Waylon eager to leave the room, leave his chains behind. “While I, work.” He continued, pulling the door open to ease himself out, hand taking hold of Waylon’s to lead him along. “You may tend to the halls, clean them?” He questioned, eyes above, trailing the hallway they stood within.

“Anything for you.” Waylon lulled, a simple bow to his legs, lifting the hem of the robe to please the man before him. Head lowering for a moment before returning. With a simple movement, he stepped forward, cupping Eddie’s face, his thumb caressed the skin, trailing over the scarred skin, red blotches that ghosted his face. “Are you leaving me again, dear?” Waylon called sadly, hand falling flat, rocking to his side. Afraid to be left alone, to be left behind.

“Only a few halls over.” Eddie admitted, stepping away from Waylon’s needy grasp. Stepping past, he pushed through, eyes flashing to the end of the hallway. “I’ll be back before you lay.” He paused, pecking a final kiss to the back of Waylon’s neck, his nape, before continuing on. “I love you, darling.” Eddie called, a final comment, before turning the corner. Listening, waiting until the trail of footsteps faded. Standing. Defeated. Waylon hovered, a trail of tears slinking down his cheeks, lip hitched, he cried silently, tears flooding his vision, disgusted with himself, hands cradled his arms, knees buckling, as he fell to the wooden floor, shins pressed into the rough floorboards as the images of his abandoned family surfaced. Lisa’s lips ushering the words Eddie had just confessed. 

 

Swollen eyes ghosted the floor beneath, dull. A wooden broom in-hand as the bristles messily scratched the floor. Too aged, too broken to actually manage a proper cleaning. A sudden jolt as the hiss of dragging metal pulled him from his thoughts, bending, he searched the floor. Hands, connecting with the handle of a knife, dulled with age, but still, lethal. Twirling the blade within his grasp, his mind returned to Eddie. The hours previous, the words he had carved into him. A free hand tugging at the material of his robe as the other held the blade, revealing his chest, trailing his fingers across the clotting wounds. A singular word flashed. Whore. 

Pulling his robe back into place, smoothing the fabric above, he shook his head at the thoughts forming. What else Eddie would carve into his skin. A momentary twang of pleasure, a prick of the knife, pressed into the skin of his fingertips ceased the thoughts. Gripping the handle, he eased the blade, a swift turn of his wrist as he launched the weapon across the room. Ears hummed, listening to the deafening rattle as the blade disappeared into the darkness. Again, he took hold, ghosting the bristles of the broom across the layers of dust, grime. The bitter stench of rot, mold, as the building around him settled. Abandoned by Murkoff, the building was an atrocity left to it’s own devices.

Murkoff. As the broom eased, his mind traveled. Was anyone alive apart from the mad-men? Doctors, security? Gripping the wooden handle, a thought surfaced. Jeremy Blaire. He’d love to see Waylon like this. He, who’d dammed Waylon from the start, seeing him succumb, giving himself over to Eddie? He’d be over the moon. Pushing the vile memories aside, he continued, bare feet moving the length of the hall to continue on his path. In this fucked up game of house, he was the perfect wife, perfect slave.

Eddie. A man he, embarrassingly, had sex with. God, his stomach churned at the thought. How many STD’s he’d managed to contract in that short time alone. But, somehow. Somewhere deep inside, he craved more. Craved Eddie’s darkness, his own vile extremities within his own. Biting at his lip, he forced the pool of vomit that had formed within his mouth down his throat.

Working the broom, his mind returned to Lisa. He hoped she was at peace, accepting of Waylon, the lost fight, his death, disappearance. He hoped she’d moved on, accepting of his passing within the rotting walls of Mount Massive. Ushering the words to their crying children as they begged for their father’s return. No. He deserved this, Lisa, deserved better. More than a lost cause such as Waylon. His kids deserved better. Someone stronger. Someone, different.

A shift in the darkness caught his attention, skirting past, the crinkle of leather, skin, ghosting over the wooden walls surrounding him. Fingers tense, curled around the broom’s handle defensively as he peered into the shadows. Louder, the shift of cans, knocked to the floor, they rattled noisily, rolling around in the darkness. Shoes, boots. Chafed against the floorboards, churning the grit beneath them. Thoughts trailed back to the he knife he’d tossed, lost in the shadows, he could of used it to fend off the unseen presence before him, stalking him.

“S-Show yourself.” Waylon pursed, hands falling free. Letting the wooden broom rattle to the dirty floor below. Bare feet, stepping forward, navigating the darkness he wished would cease. Hands searched the walls, ghosting over the frayed wood for any sign of a light-switch. Something, electricity, there had to be some sort of power left within the wires packed away. “Eddie?” He called, thoughts reeling, maybe his groom was playing a silly game, but the hidden presence embodied a different personality. Suddenly, his fingers latched, a switch, flicking the panel desperately, a thin flood of yellowed light illuminated the room. The presence, peering out from beneath a desk, the man stood. Brown hair, eyes, a bloodied leather jacket. He recognized the familiar face before him, another lost cause, another soul he’d managed to doom.

“Park?” He gritted, peering. “Fuck, is it really you?” He added, a mutilated hand raised to block the blinding light as he stepped forward. Miles Upshur.


	5. Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the help of an old friend Waylon finally works up the courage to tell Lisa he's never coming back.

The two stood, watching each other, watching every simple movement. Miles, his chest, heaving, afraid, but relaxed, finally somewhere he wasn’t prey, wasn’t being hunted. Standing across from Waylon, he shook his head, breathing steadily as he kept cautious. Unsure of anyone’s intentions. Eyes skirted over Waylon’s adornments, confused at the sight, confused with the man that stood before him. Waylon Park. Software Consultant turned mad-man.

“Waylon Park.” Miles announced, arms shifting to his side as he surveyed the scene before him, eyes slinking around the room surrounding them. The worn-out floorboards and decaying walls. A bitter stench to the air as the disease of Murkoff spread. Slowly but surely. “Whistleblower, Software Consultant.” He listed, names, professions Waylon could barely remember, barely recognize. “Bride?” Miles interjected, eyes slinking over the satin clothing displayed before him.

“I’m a different man.” Waylon gritted, thoughts ricocheting. Thoughts ghosting as he craved Eddie. Craved his return, a different face other than the one that he’d managed to doom. Miles. Skirting his eyes across the floor, his fists clenched. “Changed.” He muttered, avoiding any form of eye contact with the man before him.

“Waylon.” Miles called firmly, leather grinding as he shifted his weight from one foot to another. A swift movement to pocket the camcorder that he held, hands tired from the constant weight in his palms. “You have a family, children, remember?” He added, lost in the insanity, in Waylon’s comments, the man he’d received an email from was different than the man that stood before him.

“I used to.” Waylon huffed, forcing the idea, sadness far from his mind. Lisa. A fluttering image he couldn't remember or grasp. The name, almost foreign to him. “They used to have a father, but.” Waylon paused, moving his eyes from the floor, shifting to the ragged walls. An attempt to avoid emotion, eyes scoring the peeling wallpaper. “Things have changed.” He called finally, crossing his arms over the shimmering fabric that ghosted his skin below.

“Changed?” Miles mimicked, a twang of annoyance shifting his expression, exasperated. A free hand itching at the hair that stuck to his neck. Plastered with sweat from countless hours of running, hiding, surviving. “How?” He interjected, lips pursed as he held back another statement. “What’s even here worth suffering for?” He admitted, cheeks flushed with the realization of his statement, words within his response.

“Him.” Waylon called, a face flushing into view as he turned away, facing the wall adjacent instead of Miles. Hands ghosting over the fabric Eddie had managed to supply him with, the care he’d stitched into it. A twang within as he missed the man that he wished would return. “After what I’ve done with him.” He continued, head turned to examine the small hallway, disgust in his voice. Somehow, he didn’t quite hate the feeling as much anymore. “I can’t go back.” He finished, eyes barren, distant.

 

“Him?” Miles called, heart racing faster as he witnessed the man before him unraveling. Telling truths he had only spoken to himself or Eddie. “Swooning over a lunatic?” Miles called angrily, annoyed with Waylon’s rash decisions, taking a defensive step forward as he failed to see the friend he had once made in the eyes before him. “Are you fucking serious?” He finished, spitting insults in Waylon’s direction.

“Eddie’s far from a lunatic.” Waylon hissed defensively, eyes glaring. Sharp, and angry as he bathed in the emotions flowing around him, his own. And some, from Miles, who stood judging his actions from afar, his choices. “Innocent man turned monster.” Waylon explained, a sad tone to his voice, missing the constant touches Eddie supplied him with. “I love him.” He finished, barking his confession, silence falling, words echoing, swirling like the faltering smoke of a forgotten cigarette.

“Love?” Miles hissed sharply, disgusted. The taste strong on his tongue as he questioned his friend. Infuriated. With a jolt, he stepped back, scanning the dark, desperate to push forward, leave Waylon where he had found him, but a part of him wanted to stay, help the suffering man he used to know. “Waylon.” He barked, rubbing the irritated skin of his forehead as he tried to make sense of the situation. “You love Lisa, your children, what about them, how they feel?” Miles announced again, bringing forth Waylon’s abandoned family, his forgotten memories he'd managed to push away.

“They deserve better.” Waylon gritted. Eyes flooding with tears as his suppressed memories pushed forward, attacking the dam he hand managed to make within his mind. “They deserve.” He paused, tears flowing over the skin of his cheeks, damp. He wiped a hand across, smearing the fluid that trailed. “An explanation.” He finished, pinching the brim of his nose with a groan as he finally faced that thoughts he had continuously ran from.

“You.” He called, eyes falling to Miles with a tired expression, a deep breath ghosting his lips as he huffed a reply. “You’ll tell them.” He ordered, eyes slinking to the pocket of Miles leather jacket which held the abandoned camcorder. Intruding, hands infiltrated the pocket, pulling the device free, another pulling a mangled hand forward. “Won’t you?” He begged, pressing the electronic device into his friend's palm with a heaving breath. Pausing, a tremble to his lips, hidden behind his defensive demeanor, pressing a forefinger into the corner of his eye to avoid tears, avoiding the sadness swelling within, Waylon’s hopelessness, it was contagious.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Miles announced, breaking the silence that had formed, hands firmly gripping the camera he’d been equipped with. Silently, Waylon nodded, words absent, eyes cold as he made his final decision. “Alright.” Miles called coldly, pulling the small screen from the camera’s base, ready to film, ready to capture Waylon’s final testimony. “Fuck.” He cursed. A tear ghosting the skin of his cheek as he witnessed the man before him accept his crushing fate.

“For Lisa.” Waylon sobbed, the dam, breaking. Tears flowing.

“For Lisa.” Miles mimicked, pushing his emotions away to flash Waylon a sad smile.

Working through the darkness, a table was pulled free, inched over until it sat, centered. Fingers ghosting the wicker of worn wooden chairs as they moved. Camera positioned, only on Waylon’s body, his face, eyes hidden. Fingers entangled as he prepared himself. Sniffling, he pushed a sob aside, wiping his face with a quick movement. Brushing a hand through his hair to manage the tangles. Fearful, afraid to face reality. Pointing to signify his place, Miles sat back, hand cupped over his own mouth as he listened.

“Lisa. Boys.” He began, a hiccup to his voice as he paused, fingers drumming on the wooden table between them. Dragging a collection of fingers across his mouth to wipe the skin, an attempt to distract his mind. “Daddy’s, dead.” He finally admitted, again, tears rushing as he tried to pull himself together to finish his speech.

“The man you knew me as.” He paused, eyes ghosting to the camera, and then, to Miles. Pausing momentarily, biting at his lip as he brought his mistrewn thoughts together. “He’s dead.” He paused, lips pursed. “Rotting.” He added, eyes cold, distracted.

“It’s for the best.” He called suddenly, breath hitched as the truth announced drew daggers, a searing pain of which could not be cured. A punishment, maybe. For his selfishness, his actions. Hands pressed to the wooden table below, cold and bare, he continued. “I was never of any use to you Lisa, the children.” He lulled, eyes cold, fluttering in and out of focus, a sob, seeping from beneath, with a cough, he attempted to mask it, ultimately failing.

“Do better.” He called, pushing the emotions aside to focus on his final sentences. “Be better.” He added, a cold chill rushing over his skin, the faint whine of dying batteries as the camera attempted to record, keep focus. “Be better than I ever was, will be.” He finished, a tired sigh escaping his lips as he wiped a hand across his forehead, a final statement, bringing his thoughts together, he pushed forward.

“I love you.” He hummed, tears escaping, too tired to hide them, to mask them, he let his emotions run free. Tired of holding them in for so long. “Goodbye.” He sobbed, his final words. Light faded as the batteries finally perished, fading into darkness as Waylon buckled, hands falling to his face as he let go, echoing cries flooding the small room.

Pocketing the device, Miles stood, zipping the leather jacket in an attempt to fend off the chilling air, wiping the collection of tears that had formed from his view. Eyes attentive on Waylon as he sat, a steady trail of hiccups escaping his lips as he raised his head. Memories, thoughts he’d never have to face again, fading from his mind, a strange sense of relief as he let a heavy breath pass, turning to Miles, he flashed the taller man a saddened, pathetic smile.

 

“You died a respectable death.” Miles called with a sad smile. Taking hold of Waylon’s shoulder, he kneaded the frail skin below with shaky fingers. The smaller man, standing up from the wooden chair, turning his eyes to the the brown irises that watched him. “Noble.” Miles added, a sudden jolt as he pulled Waylon into a warm hug, rubbing his back tenderly as he prepared to say goodbye to his friend for the last time. Tears swelling, which he attempted to mask. Letting Waylon go, he stepped backwards, shifting in the darkness, feet on-edge.

“I hope you made the right decision.” Miles called, a final statement, walking forward, ready to abandon the man he barely recognized. “For her sake.” He finished, turning the corner, feet trailing at first, and then following a steady jog, echoing throughout the empty wooden hallways until it faded, along with Miles, a face he’d never see again.


	6. Decipher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waylon comes to terms with his fate.

Pushing the mishandled table aside tiredly, Waylon slouched. Hands pressed against the cold wood of the table as he hovered. A short pause, a break before moving the table back into place. Stacking the chairs where they first sat with careless movements. Fingers chafing against the wall as his skin dragged, latching around the familiar light switch, he moved. A swift flick of the panel vacuumed the yellow light into nonexistence, the room swarming with dark shadows as the light evaporated. His own feet trailing, returning to the hallway he first stood, first tended to. He moved to push the broom aside, too tired, too dejected to continue. He moved for the familiar room he shared with Eddie.

A song. One he once hated, but had grown to love, reverberated throughout the collection of moldy walls and brittle staircases. Eddie. Singing the same song, an extra step to his movements as he swayed with the words he hummed. His voice, hoarse, but talented. A finger tapped at his own face as Waylon thought of the other songs Gluskin could muster. Trailing to the doorway, he curled a hand around the chilled doorknob, pulling the door open to greet his groom. Turning corners, a wide smile, hands filled with various scraps of different cloth. Gluskin, flashing a tired smile at the bride that stood before him.

“I see you’ve grown weary.” Eddie called suddenly, following after Waylon as he trailed back within the small bedroom. Moving to sit atop the faded mattress as he flashed Gluskin a tired smile. “Eyes swollen from countless unseen tears.” He called, placing the collection of cloth gathered on the table adjacent, smoothing the pile neatly with a single hand as he turned to face Waylon. “Are you alright, darling?” Eddie cooed, taking a short stroll to sit beside Waylon.

“Fine.” Waylon called suddenly, taking hold of the bigger man's hand, entwining his own hand within. Fingers latched together as his fingertips brushed over the warm skin of Eddie’s hand. Lips pursed with uncertainty as Gluskin eyed him, retinas ghosting over his figure. “Emotional, adjusting to a new home, new spouse, it’s stressful.” Waylon continued, piecing together a believable lie to steer away from the conversation at hand. “I appreciate your concern, Eddie.” Waylon finished, the familiar name ghosting from his lips, a tingle to his spine as he endured Eddie’s gaze. 

“Ah.” Eddie called, a faint blush flooding his bloodied cheeks. Eyes moving from the collection of fabric, falling to the floor, and then finally returning to Waylon. “A name, so divine coming from those luscious lips of yours, darling.” He complimented, a hand raised to caress the skin of Waylon’s cheek momentarily. A simple movement as he brushed his thumb over the protruding cheek-bone. 

“Anyhow.” Eddie announced, hand falling free as he stood from the musty mattress. Springs creaking as his weight subsided. Leather shoes trailing across the room as he approached the table, over-flowing with fabric, scraps of different sizes and textures. A hand rifled through with a quick movement, pulling a scrap free to display. “I’ve collected fabrics, scraps.” Eddie lulled, stepping forward to hand over the piece of ram-shackled cloth. Fingers pushing the material into Waylon’s palm. “I’ll piece together a wedding dress worthy of embracing that skin of yours, dear.” Eddie cooed, lips curling at the comment evoked.

“The ceremony.” Waylon blurted, thoughts rushing back to him as he sat. Memories flooding, the consummation, the eager pounce, Eddie’s past actions as they laid entangled together. A proper service was required to make the two complete. Whole. “I-I almost forgot.” Waylon stuttered embarrassed with his forgetfulness. A shy look as his eyes slinked to the aged wooden floor below.

“Rest, darling.” Eddie called, hands curling around Waylon’s forearm as he led him along. Feet trailing back to the cotton mattress. “Forgetfulness is only a symptom of lack of sleep, is it not?” He asked, eyes ghosting over the bruised bags hiding beneath Waylon’s swollen eyes. A swooping arm lowered to take hold of Waylon’s legs, shifting his weight within the bigger man’s arms as Gluskin held him bridal style. Leaning to lay him along the mattress, Eddie’s lips lowered, pressing a kiss to the skin of Waylon’s chest, earning a gentle moan as he rolled to escape the man’s tender touches.

“Rest.” Eddie repeated, pulling a sheet forward, frayed and mismatched, but still able to manage coverage. Draping the cloth over, he pressed a final kiss to Waylon’s forehead before standing up straight. “While you rest, I’ll begin working, sewing.” Eddie commented, turning away, walking to the opposite side of the room, his voice radiating, face hidden as Waylon fell victim to the warmth the sheet’s provided. “Our future awaits, dear.” Gluskin cooed as the room around fell dark, eyes fluttering shut as Eddie hummed a familiar tune aloud. 

A familiar room, or, office? No. A supply closet, machines, boxes around him buzzing happily, wires connecting all of Murkoff to a single database. A table, hidden in the room’s corner, sitting, laptop open as Waylon's fingers paused. He was back, the fateful day, the mistake that screwed him over, was he reliving it? Without finishing, he deleted the document, sliding the laptop aside to stand. An announcement, Waylon Park, paged. Called to attend, to fix technical difficulties surrounding the Morphogenic Engine, a familiar job.

One after the other, his feet trailed, walking the familiar hallway as chatter from surrounding Murkoff employees filled the stone passageway. Hurriedly rushing to fulfill his duties. Managing a proper pace. Doors, gigantic, shifting aside as Waylon moved, entering the room, a massive space, glass panels revealing the inhumane machine created to turn mad-men into fuel. Rushing to the computer, screen blank as a shrill voice beside barked orders. This. He remembered this moment. Where’d he’d first met Eddie, he was scared, afraid, begging for help, and Waylon was silent, unable to speak, help the suffering figure who pleaded for freedom. Dream or not, he was determined to fix his mistakes.

Typing the familiar code into the keyboard, a line of green text appeared as orders filed in, A nosy hustle as a pair of doors slid open, guards, arms attempting to hold the beast in place as he struggled for freedom, voice deep, shrill as he begged. Feet shuffling forward as the guards moved to begin Eddie’s testing. Pulling free, he darted from the guards, slamming his weight into the glass, eyes turning to Waylon who watched him intently.

“This is cruel.” Waylon mumbled, pulling his hands from the keyboard, abandoning the line of text which only he knew how to manipulate. The chair behind him hissing against the metal floor as he pushed the furniture backwards. “I-I can’t let this happen.” He mumbled, ushering back from the computer, Eddie’s lips curving as Waylon fell victim to his antics. “Not again.” He lulled, desperate to escape his nightmare.

“Park!” An employee barked, hands slamming against the linoleum counter as restless faces surrounding him glared. Watching Waylon’s every movement as he slinked further away from the console. “Do your fucking job before you get us all killed!” The man hissed, hands curling into fists as pouting lips faced him. Face red and angry as the guards behind the glass attempted to restrain Gluskin.

“F-Fix this shitty machine?” Waylon questioned, prying his eyes open to face the man he feared, the employees that judged him. Angry, his eyes watched, slinking around the room as he brought his mismatched thoughts together. “Let this continue?” He added, head filled with static as he questioned the man before him. “Let Murkoff torture innocent patients, all for what, some psychotic project?” He spit, thoughts reeling as truth surfaced, thoughts he was desperate to shout from day one.

“Sympathetic for some deranged man?” The employee interjected, a smirk shaping his lips as he attempted to embarrass Waylon, bringing his truths to the surface. “You’ve got pity for the wrong crowd, Park.” He added, smile quick to fade as he shoved Waylon from the console, hands working to fix the puzzle only Waylon knew how to solve.

“Fuck you.” Waylon hissed, jolting forward, he curled his hands around the computer. Pulling the console free, a sickening snap as plastic detached, breaking as the computer was forced, pried off. “I won’t let this continue, for their sake.” He gritted, slamming the electronic to the ground with a heaving breath. Keys scattering as the system broke apart. “For his.” He finished, feet smashing the remains that sat scattered below.

Fluttering, his eyes opened. Waylon awoke, for once, without a jolt. Awakening by himself as the room around him vibrated rhythmically as Eddie hummed. Hidden in the corner as he tended to a lone mannequin, fabric draped over as he worked on piecing the dress together. Unaware of Waylon’s presence. Rolling over quietly, he watched him, muscles tensing as he stitched, a tired smile to Waylon's lips as he watched his favorite tailor work.


	7. Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waylon's cushy life with the Groom is about to take an interesting turn.

Still, his eyes watched the man work. With a silent and effortless motion, Waylon swung the weight of his legs over the side of the bed, letting them hang momentarily before connecting with the cold and barren wooden floor below. A sudden wave of emotion held him in place, crashing as if he was the sand enduring the harsh weight of the water. As if the barrier of his insanity hiding his true personality was falling apart. This couldn't be it, truly. Lisa was still there, still grieving, and he was still alive, thriving, playing a nauseating game of house with a mentally ill murderer. Slowly, the past events of the previous days came into view. His actions, his weakness, and his vulnerability. Where he sat, he belonged to a completely separate soul. Within his thoughts, the surfacing images of Eddie's rough hands on his skin, his lips around his length, is was nauseating, truly grotesque. With a sudden shift, his weight was thrown off, and his body writhed against the wooden floor as he poorly attempted to control the thick flow of bile escaping his lips.

"Gracious!" A familiar voice called as the hissing call of falling debris echoed within the small space. The growing concern of shuffling feet approached, and a pair of hands lowered to take hold of the man below. "Are you ill my precious?" Eddie called sympathetically as he pulled Waylon to his knees, a thumb wiping at the trail of vomit left behind to drop down his chin.

"I-I." Waylon began, intellectual conversation far from his mind as the hands of the man before him began to seize. Effortlessly lifting the weight of the smaller man who slinked within Gluskin's grasp. "I don't know." He finally ushered, his own arms curling inward in an attempt to calm his churning stomach.

"Ah." Eddie cooed, the man below cautious of his every word as his weight began to shift. Movements ushering forward as the foggy hallways began to fade. "It must be these useless parts, is it not?" Gluskin chuckled, a violating gaze passing over Waylon's pale skin. A burrowing terror growing in his stomach as he awaited a following response. 

With a shifting grasp, Waylon was hosted up as Gluskin's free hand pulled at the doorhandle, feet quick to move as the small bedroom was left behind. The new room awaiting was dark and musty. With a spiraling fear, Waylon's grasp tightened as his fingers worked to caress the fabric of the Groom's vest below in an attempt to calm his nerves. The sudden warmth and closeness of Eddie faded as he was placed upon an unseen table. A chill to the material below as Gluskin worked to lay the panicked man. Fingertips ghosting over the flushed skin of his wrists as another material encased his limbs. With fading footsteps, Eddie passed to the opposite side of the room, fingers working to flick a collection of switches. With a flash, a blinding light above flooded the room, a momentary flash of pale white burning Waylon's retinas.

"Patience, my love." Eddie lulled as he stepped forward, a single hand brushing over the bound limbs of Park. A silence as his curious eyes surveyed the room. "You'll be perfect, the glimmering image of feminine beauty." He coaxed as his touch grew distant. A clatter as the Groom moved around the room, hands searching for the proper conjunction of tools. 

Throat dry, every swallow felt like a blade ghosting the length of his windpipe. Eyes vibrating, too afraid to take in his surroundings. The bitter stench of iron in the air around was enough to clue him in. This was it. The countless butchered corpses he'd stumbled across, the canvased carcasses of innocent Murkoff patients undergoing involuntary changes. It was all the work of the Groom and now it was Waylon's turn. A cold relief set over him, emotions too tethered to piece together, too frayed to comprehend, even the slightest sign of death was a calming apparition.

"Eddie?" Waylon whined, tugging on his bindings as he lifted his head to search for the butcher. A man for which his emotions were mixed, insanity and pity for the man in the shadows. "I'm scared, god, I'm so scared." He sobbed, a trail of tears ghosting over the skin of his cheeks. With a sudden step forward Eddie was revealed, sheathed fingers gripping the corners of a rusty surgical tray. Pushing the materials adjacent, gloved hands chaffed Waylon's sore cheeks as a single finger moved to brush his tears away.

"Don't be." He soothed, hand moving from Waylon's cheek to duck into his bloodied locks, a calming motion as Gluskin worked an easing hand along his scalp. With sudden abandonment, eyes returned to his patient, eager hands tearing the fabric that protected his extremities. "It's a quick procedure, really." Gluskin commented as he worked a fading marker along Waylon's damp skin. "Would you prefer a sedative, love?" Eddie called, eyes returning to the swelling pools that sat below. Effortlessly, Park nodded, head shaking even after the question had faded to the dark corners of the room. 

A silence rang, his ears distracted as a single syringe was lifted into view. Clean, for the most part, and inside an unknown concoction of liquid sparkling with a green hue. Heavy-set hands worked to flick the small needle before Gluskin's eyes returned to his bride. With a nod, he lowered a single hand to squeeze the flesh of Waylon's shoulder comfortingly. 

"Count to three, love." Eddie called, a countdown in his mind as he stirred his consciousness away from the impending needle. A pinprick, and then the following suffocation of swelling sedatives being pumped into his veins arose. "One, two." Gluskin lulled, a calming tone as Waylon's eyes attempted to remain open, the lingering fear only a spec as the medication cogged beneath the surface. "Three." The word seemed angelic, echoing even after it ghosted from familiar lips. The room around fading into darkness as his mind fell to a place of peace. 

Dreams. This wasn't a dream, or a nightmare, it was pitch blackness. A dark abyss which he resided inside. Body lost as his mind wandered free. Unable to recall a single memory, face, name, the only focus remained on the suffocating clouds of imprisonment. Again, like crashing waves prying, a violating process as he awaited the recoil, the wash-over of gurgling rapids. Painlessly, it passed, engulfing completely, limbs prey to the weight of the element. Tugging. Everything hurt, every muscle fighting to move, to escape from the crushing weight, the impending drown. The water flowing behind, ghosting over his ears, lapping at the skin of his face as it worked to pry beneath. Breath. He needed to breathe, pain, a stinging burn as he realized the writhing pain within his lungs, his eyes tight, and hot, at the peak of panic. Body writhing as he fought against the current that bound his limbs. Inhale. He couldn't, he'd die, drown, but fighting against the water seemed a harder battle to manage. With every passing second, the burning sensation only grew stronger, fighting, scarring his insides. With a suffocated whine, he pried his eyes open, staring into the darkness as it flooded his mind. Exhale. With a jolt, his mouth opened.

Eyes snapped open, a cold sweat drenched Waylon's skin as he reeled from his nightmare. The room before him sat dark and silent. Time. What time was it? How long had Gluskin had him out? He couldn't tell, time was a hard thing to comprehend within the walls of Mount Massive. Still, he laid, bound, and bandaged, a searing pain beneath the surface. At first it was dull, manageable, but as Eddie's concoction faded, the pain tore through his flesh without a single sliver of remorse. A gagging, a scream so deep it only ushered groans. The skin of his chest searing to fight against the nauseating ache in his pelvis. Like the blades used to operate had been left to toy at his wounds, the table below was stained crimson and the newly applied bandages mirrored the same hue. With a grit, tears rushed over the skin of Waylon's face as he fought to battle the pain that engulfed him. 

"Perfection." A familiar voice lulled from the shadows as an unseen hand moved to brush over Waylon's bandaged chest. A grit to Park's expression as he attempted to swallow his sobs. "A proper women." Gluskin cooed, stepping forward to observe his handiwork. "For a proper ceremony." He finished, lowering to peck a trail of kisses against the stained bandages binding his bride's chest.


	8. Devotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waylon dedicates every waking moment to the man of madness.

Time. The only way to tell it was to record the changing hue of the seething bandages below. At first, an alarming shade of red, droplets of initial wounding. After, pallets of swirling violet, a blue darker than the toxic sky looming over Mount Massive. The bare skin of Waylon's chest which once laid riddled with scars now sat sheathed with the thin material of another satin night-gown. Gluskin. His arms firmly wrapped around his waist, a grip careful enough not to tug at the newly stitched wounds below. The room once used for procedure lost as the two laid entangled together in the Groom's quarters. Lolled to one side, Waylon's eyes ghosted over the foggy room, attentive on the faint wheeze of droning snores that echoed. Eddie. Asleep, clutching his bride while a mangled mind ran free from the consciousness of potential madness. A fresh supply of cotton sheets laid over his slumbering form. The area at hand sat abandoned, room once used to tailor now swept clean. A towering collection of supplies pushed away for later use, through the shadows a single silhouette stood out.

A dress. Fabrics, scraps Eddie once had piled together now sat stitched, mismatched pieces coming together to form a visually decent garment. Flowing sleeves accompanied the attire, hand-stitched lace shadowing over the pin-riddled mannequin below. The flowing skirt below was endless, the silken-white attire never seeming to end, careful hands cautious as to not make a single visual error. A tired smile pulled at the corner of Waylon's mouth as he attempted to slip from Gluskin's grasp. With a shift, the touch only tightened, curious fingers ghosting over a newly set adornment of protruding breasts. 

"Curious, are we?" Gluskin lulled intoxicatingly. Touch departing as he moved to help support his spouse, hands moving to pull at the flesh of Waylon's arms. A quick motion to pull the smaller man up, weight shifting to give Waylon a heavy support to lean against. Curious eyes peered below, eyeing the drenched fabric of the cotton bandages. "Desperate to see your new additions, darling?" Eddie added as he slithered an arm around Waylon's waist. Silence reverberated momentarily as Waylon thought cautiously. This was it, his final stand, the last act. Lisa was now but a soothing memory to look back upon. 

"Yes." Waylon finally ushered, a chilling fear rushing the length of his spin as foreign hands moved to grope the skin of his legs. A violating touch moving to latch around the frill of the thin nightgown. "I-Is it bad?" He chattered fearfully as he awaited an array of carefully pieced compliments.

"Bad?" Eddie chuckled humorously, hands moving to slide the garment from view. An effortless motion arising as Gluskin began to remove the collection of bandages. "My work is anything but." He added with a laugh, focus set forward on working the bindings free. 

Wet and slick. The feeling was heinous. The drag of damp fabric ghosting the mangled flesh below was nauseating. Eyes averted, Waylon sat fearful of his new adornments. With a harrowing grasp, Gluskin moved to remove the satin nightgown, a simple motion to move closer to the bandages binding his brides chest. Again he sat naked, vulnerable in the hands of a mad-man who had managed to mutilate him. With a simple tug, the bindings fell free exposing the newly stitched creation of insanity, the bride.

"Perfection." Gluskin lulled, a warmth encasing chilled shoulders as he moved forward, rough lips brushing over the sensitive flesh of Waylon's back. A harrowing grip moved to tug at the skin of Waylon's chin, a simple movement to avert his attention. "Observe." Eddie instructed as Park shuttered fearfully. 

Finally, the damage was displayed. A nauseating image of splatter-house gore. The playful illusion of Hollywood magic was now gut-wrenching reality. An array of stitches, gushing and swollen, a sickening hue of yellow. A carefully stitched example of female anatomy. Breasts. Swollen and bloody, flesh sliced to force a collection of cartilage beneath the skin. Skin of other maniacs pieced together to form the perfect women.

"L-Lovely." Waylon ushered fearfully. Any shred of hope that managed to linger beneath the fog of insanity instantly vanished. The point of no return. He indebted every sliver of his meager existence to the Groom.

"Lovely indeed." Gluskin cooed, movements fading as he forced Waylon aside to stand free from the tangled bedsheets. Echoing footsteps reverberating as Eddie moved to slink a suffocating grasp around the adored mannequin. "And the dress?" He questioned, eyes gravitating to the wounded makeshift women.

"For the ceremony?" Waylon stammered, an effort as he painfully pulled himself to his feet. A death-defying burn gouging at his infected wounds. Heaving breaths. Attentive eyes watched him move as he slowly inched his way over to the situation at-hand. Breathless, the smaller man took hold of Gluskin's bicep as curious eyes took in the harrowing details of the attire. Draped over the shoulder adjacent sat a single garter and matching veil. "It's breathtaking." He added, shifting his weight forward to ghost his fingertips over the fabric.

"I'll create far better once I've made an honest women of you." Eddie pestered. Careful fingers working to pry the outfit from its holster. "You'll make yourself presentable, I assume?" He questioned, working the fine material over the shoulders of the lone mannequin. "I can hardly wait." Gluskin finalized with glittering eyes, heaving hands working to pass over the massive gown with a sprouting smile.

"For you?" Waylon called longingly, eyes attentive on the questioning expression before him. A flutter of nervousness as rough skin ghosted over his frail hands. "Anything." He added with an intoxicatingly sweet smile, a bow as he stood exposed to the elements, the heaving dress within his grasp the only form of coverage. A burn pricking his core as he teetered on his heels.

"Perfect." Gluskin hummed, a gesture of prayer forming as he brought his hands together effortlessly. With a single movement, he stepped forward, pressing a kiss to the skin of Waylon's cheek, tongue peeking out momentarily to taste the salty skin below. Quick on his feet as he moved, his massive form shadowing the small doorway as he turned to usher a final sentence. "Do hurry." He called, eyes glimmering, an evident smile as he abandoned the small room and the bride within.

Pulling the dress on without the help of Gluskin was far more effort than it seemed. Every inch of heavy material dragging against the pulsating wounds beneath. A painful hitch of breath, teeth gashing at chapped lips as Waylon moved to slide the garter up the length of his thigh. With a final huff, the flowing veil was forced into his hair, fighting against the crusted layers of blood and grime to find a proper placement. A bride truly unlike any other. A nauseating throb shaking his form as he doubled over, hands pushing at the flesh of his thighs in an attempt to stand up-right. This was it. A ceremony to bring the two together, an intertwining tradition to make a whole out of two horribly broken half's. With an audible groan Waylon pushed forward. One foot after the other as attentive ears worked in-sync to follow the echoing footsteps of the towering Groom. Turning dusty corners until he discovered a poorly-lit display of a ceremony. A make-shift wedding. A shag of mismatched fabric strewn across the floor to impersonate a isle. Patients, other poor souls sat to witness the birth of insanity itself. Some deceased, slumped against creaking wooden chairs, others nervous, bodies wracked with twitches as they sat fearfully. 

Prying his gaze from the display, he ushered forward, a stumble to his movements. Hands adhered to the wooden wall adjacent to provide a sturdy leverage. With a slow-paced slunk he finally managed to seek-out the Groom. Shirtless, he worked a finer, cleaner fabric over his shoulders, fingers delicately moving to button the newly adorned attire. Without turning, without a single sound escaping Waylon's lips, he was sought out.

"My little seductress." Eddie coaxed, hands abandoning the piece to focus on the issue at hand. With an effortless motion, he turned, face-to-face, blue eyes taking in the crimson-flushed skin of the man before him. "Eager for our honeymoon?" Gluskin chuckled, offering a hand forward that Waylon was eager to grasp.

"I'm eager for every moment." Waylon stifled, a sudden tug pulling him forward into the arms of Gluskin. A cloud of pain hovering as his wounds writhed. With a grunt he moved to press a kiss to the skin of Eddie's cheek. "You spoil me." He added breathily with a wink. Crusted lashes batting against the red-hot skin of his face as Eddie closed in. With a dip Gluskin began, arms swooping the draping material of the dress as he lifted Waylon into his arms, a chattering echo as he moved for the nearest surface. 

Kisses. First tracing over every inch of skin Gluskin could locate. Lips brushing over flushed skin as Waylon dug his needy fingers into the fabric of Eddie's shirt, a throb as his incisions worked against him. Even in his form, his current state, his body could still manage the unforgettable twang of pleasure. Gentle pecks melded into lustful exploration. Tongues entwined together as Gluskin worked a free hand under the material of Waylon's dress. A dragging touch as chilled fingertips brushed over the goose-bumped skin below. A nipping sensation as Eddie pulled Waylon's bottom lip in-between his teeth, a grit as he ghosted the skin with sharp bone. With a jerk Gluskin tugged Waylon's thigh upwards, a revealing stance to his demeanor as Eddie eyed his newly adorned parts hungrily. Eager eyes awaited a response.

"I'm yours." Waylon moaned with thirst. Every moment of doubt pulled from his consciousness. Every thought fluttering in the space of his mind fully indebted to what he could make Eddie do to him. A intoxicating mix of pleasure and pain deep below that could no longer be shrouded. "Fuck me." Waylon hissed with a grunt.

Jerking his form forward, he slouched. A toss as Eddie moved Waylon's legs to rest comfortably on his shoulders. A tug to the suffocating fabric below as he dragged a eager tongue over Waylon's clit. Strangely enough pleasure was still manageable, whatever Gluskin had managed to create worked, pain and pleasure combined as his body writhed beneath. A groan escaping blue-tinged lips as Eddie forced his tongue deeper. He wanted it, stronger than the first time Gluskin ravished him, he wanted every inch of Eddie to himself, every moment of pleasure he was capable of enduring. 

"You filthy whore." Gluskin cooed, pulling back to eye Waylon as he licked at his lips. Retinas intertwined as an unseen hand moved to pull at the moistened skin of Waylon's extremities. A smirk forming on his crooked lips as he worked a fingertip over the spit-soaked vulva. "A sinner." He purred with a sudden protrusion, finger moving to stroke Waylon's newly exposed insides. Fingering the opening, tongue followed in-sync to earn a pleasurable reaction. 

Tongue escaping his mouth, he moaned, a weighted grunt resting against his chest as he fought through the painful haze. Arms forced against the gritty wooden wall as he reached climax. A sputter as his legs hitched together to fight against the unusual combination. A chuckle as Eddie worked faster, grip tight around Waylon's thigh as he forced his legs apart to finish. A gagging grunt as he stretched the skin with another jabbing extremity. A sharp moan escaped Waylon's lips, a hiss as he spiraled over, a shutter as he soared within the ecstasy of his pleasurable high. A cry escaping his lips as he pulled Gluskin's fingers from his incision. With a final extort of energy the two tiredly slumped against the wall.

Silently the two moved like clockwork. A shared smile as hands and bodies separated to move and redress. Swatches of color fading as the two returned to normality. Footsteps in-sync as they moved from the dusty darkness of the moldy room, an addictive strut eradicating from Eddie as he tugged Waylon along as he attempted to relocate the archway. With a shuffle the two took their places, surrounding patients silent as they crawled up the isle to the platform.

"Dearly beloveded." Gluskin began immediately, hands joining with Waylon's as he smiled proudly. "I, Eddie Gluskin in the name of the spirit of God that resides within us all." Eddie recited, a free hand moving to caress the flesh of Waylon's stomach as a gritting wince escaped his lips. "Take thee to my hand, my heart, and my spirit." He finalized with a needy tug. With a turn, he scooped, jerking Waylon into a dangle as he loomed above. 

"Till' death do us part." Eddie cooed, lowering to place a lasting kiss on Waylon's lips. A smile forming against the grit of melding mouths as he pulled away. "I do." He mouthed with a toothy grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to re-write Chapter 8. Waylon deserves a far (better?) ending. Presto!


End file.
